


And Then, Finally, the Thunder Speaks

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9297077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: In the end, James becomes poetry.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [fandomweekly](http://fandomweekly.dreamwidth.org) prompt: old-fashioned, but... it went smutty on me. Quotes are from "The Waste Land" by T. S. Eliot. (And that was supposed to be "no archive warnings apply" -- not "major character death"! Sorry!)

James has said that Robbie is old fashioned. And yet it is James who is steeped in the authority of the past, who dredges up apt quotations with which to quip and hide. To let them speak for him.

Bits of Eliot resurface in his head now, as thunder wreaks havoc on his senses.

_My friend, blood shaking my heart_

Robbie is careful but firm, his touch determined. James lets Robbie peel away his armour -- suit and tie, every stitch of clothing -- and is laid bare with nothing but his quivering, hopeful self on offer now.

_The awful daring of a moment’s surrender_

Not awful, never awful, just joy and wonder as Robbie kisses him. It's something electric, more charged than the natural elements. It's the daring of more than a moment, but rather many, all captured in his mind like still photographs:

The stubbled touch of Robbie's cheek against his body.

The fracture in his own calm as Robbie's hands roam, teasing and caressing. 

The warm slick of cock against cock, both weeping in anticipation. 

Surrender as he opens himself for Robbie, first one finger, then two, burying himself in himself as he loses himself and then there is no self, just **them**.

_Which an age of prudence can never retract_

How long had James wasted? How long had prudence, the doubts of daylight held him back? But that is past and here is now, and time stretches into poetic oblivion as Robbie breaches him. James sighs, a sound of contentment, and Robbie cups his head to kiss him as they both descend.

_By this, and this only, we have existed_

James wants words, all the words, nothing but verse to drip from his lips. To tell Robbie, somehow, that this moment is timeless, that this feeling is endless. But silence is golden now, and Robbie is silver, the best conductor of heat and electricity. And, as the blood shakes in his heart, James falls to pieces under the onslaught. The bed they are sharing is his page, the movement and sensation his text. 

And James wants nothing more than to write, and be written upon.


End file.
